


love = contraband (according to the local librarian)

by TooRational



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Feels, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, Libraries, M/M, Napping, Podfic Welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-18 16:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21780553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/pseuds/TooRational
Summary: Although, like, who would even leave poisoned foodstuffs around for poor, inattentive, stressed out students to ingest? Only comic-book level villain, and Patrick doesn't know anyone that evil in real life. And even if he did, they wouldn't be after Patrick. He's as boring as they come.Pete, they'd definitely try to recruit. Or, like, kidnap.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 26
Kudos: 71





	love = contraband (according to the local librarian)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the tumblr post ["cute couple things i’ve seen on campus this semester that make me want a stupid boyfriend"](https://toorational.tumblr.com/post/189647339327/cute-couple-things-ive-seen-on-campus-this) by jeongukk. I think that explains everything you need to know about this shameless fluff-fest.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Lies, untruths, complete fabrication, made for fun. You are now entering an alternate universe in which a butterfly batted its wings and, like, something something *mumble* ~LOVE! Blessings on all these lovely people and their loved ones, may they live in happiness and health for a very, very long time. (And if you dare bother them, I'm personally going to kick the shit out of your disrespectful ass. You've been warned.)

There is a sandwich and a bottle of water in front of Patrick.

Or, well. There's a wrapper that looks suspiciously like something a sandwich would be wrapped into, and a half-empty bottle of water in front of Patrick, and Patrick has no idea where any of it came from.

He probably shouldn't have eaten the thing while typing up his report one-handed. Or drank the other thing. In his defense, he wasn't even aware he did it; it was there, it was edible, and thus, poof—gone! It's only now, as he's staring at the remains, that he's starting to wonder how it all got here.

This is not good. Patrick should definitely avoid doing this in the future. Free food is _not_ worth the potential poisoning and stranger-danger, no matter what his stomach says. It's too late now, of course, but just for future reference.

Although, like, who would even leave poisoned foodstuffs around for poor, inattentive, stressed out students to ingest? Only comic-book level villain, and Patrick doesn't know anyone that evil in real life. And even if he did, they wouldn't be after Patrick. He's as boring as they come.

Pete, they'd definitely try to recruit. Or, like, kidnap. Pete just has that sort of personality, you know. Big and— and interesting. Magnetic.

Patrick shakes his head in an attempt to shake off the distraction and goes back to the assignment from hell. He is not spending an extra four hours in the library because he started daydreaming about Pete Wentz and lost track of what he was doing.

Not again.

As it happens, he really should start worrying about his compulsive-slash-unconscious eating habits, because a few hours later there's a small, half-empty packet of licorice in his palm, and his scalp's tingling with a phantom sensation of lips and warm breath.

The girl studying at the table across from him tries to hide a smirk at his confusion; poorly, since he's looking _right at her_.

What the _hell_ is going on?

Less than an hour after that, he figures it out mid-sip as his heart goes haywire.

"Pete, what are you doing?"

The lips on the back of Patrick's neck ( _meep_! says Patrick's poor brain) disappear as Pete bounces (probably; 'bouncing' sounds like something Pete would do) up and away.

"Ha! I was wondering when you'd notice."

Patrick turns his head and raises an eyebrow at Pete since his mouth is full of hot tea. Blessed, wonderful, revitalizing black tea with a splash of milk, just how he likes it.

He takes another sip and tries not to moan out loud at the pure comfort of it.

Pete clears his throat, weirdly fidgety, then squints at him. "How'd you know it was me?"

Patrick has way too much self-control than to do a spit-take or freeze; _please_. He's been at this for half a decade, he knows better than to reveal that he can recognize Pete's touch in half a second, that he has the shape and feel of Pete's hands memorized, and creepily enough, that he knows Pete's smell better than anyone else's.

"Saw the edge of your tattoo when you put the cup in front of me."

He didn't, of course. He was trying to rephrase a sentence for the fiftieth time – and it still doesn't look quite right – and was thus too preoccupied to notice a herd of elephants trampling around him, let alone a single, sneaky Pete, but.

"Are you gonna take a break anytime soon?" Pete asks, messing with the pens Patrick always has on the table, just in case. They're useless with the laptop there, but _just in case_.

"Can't."

"Patrick. Come on, man."

"Pete, I don't have the time, I have to finish this tonight."

It's true, the assignment is due tomorrow, and Patrick doesn't have any time to waste.

"I'm gonna bug you until you take a break."

"Pete, for fuck's sake. I'll be done in a few hours, just leave me alone."

Silence.

Patrick regrets his tone and what he said almost instantly, because it's way too harsh and not what he wants _at all_ , but— it's just that Pete is so _distracting_ , and Patrick really needs to finish this, and—

By the time Patrick lifts his head to apologize, Pete is already gone.

*

Some indeterminable amount of time later (feels like a year to Patrick, with all the guilt and self-recrimination and swearing up and down to himself to never _ever_ say a bad word to Pete again, no matter how mad he makes Patrick, no matter how frustrated; but it's probably less than an hour?), a disembodied hand dangling a bag of caramels appears inside of his field of vision.

As relieved as he is to see Pete is back, Patrick still gets a little nervous because he _knows_ Pete's still a little pissed off at him. See, he brought him caramel this time, and Pete knows Patrick hates caramel. Pete _also_ knows Patrick will eat anything that's in front of him when he's like this, and grimace and complain the entire time, and _still_ continue eating, unaware; and so, the wicked circle of hated candy continues.

Revenge is a dish best served to distracted college students stuck in libraries.

One look at Pete's smug face, and Patrick can't find it in himself to mind.

"Gimme that," he grunts, and eats the first candy willingly, as penance. His teeth get sticky almost immediately and Patrick can't help the sour face he makes.

Pete laughs his happy laugh, quiet but sincere, _radiant_ , and all is well with the world again.

*

This time, Pete doesn't leave. He pokes and prods and manhandles Patrick until he's sitting on the edge of his chair, then slides in behind him, thighs on the outside of Patrick's, chest pressed tight to Patrick's back.

It's incredibly, _incredibly_ distracting. Like Pete is in general, _all the time_ , but so much more.

"Pete. Pete."

No reply.

" _Pete_ , _what_ are you _doing_?"

Patrick's kind of scared to move, or breathe, or blink.

"Nothing. Keeping an eye on you," Pete says nonchalantly, then squirms a little, and Patrick wants to _die_.

"Pete, what are you—"

"Shhh," Pete whispers, almost directly into his ear, and _oh sweet star wars_ , "You have a paper to finish, and then we're going to get dinner."

There is no way Pete isn't deliberately messing with him by now. Like, the man has no concept of personal space, sure, but this is above and beyond.

It's pure torture, is what it is. Patrick is appalled.

 _Appalled_ , not that other thing he might be, that's completely unacceptable in a library. Or anywhere near Pete.

"Pete—" Patrick tries again, squirming himself.

It doesn't help at all, unless bringing them even closer together was the goal.

Patrick would like for the record to show that that wasn't the goal. The _goal_ was to get Pete to leave him alone so that he doesn't embarrass himself.

The goal seems as far away as Timbuktu at the moment.

Pete, who at some point snuck his arms around Patrick's waist, covers his mouth with a caramel-smelling palm and _oh my fucking god_ , Pete, _what the fuck_.

 _Embarrassment imminent_ , wails a hysterical voice inside Patrick's head.

Patrick ignores it. He's more or less stuck here, with Pete plastered to his back like a limpet, refusing to budge.

"I'm not moving. I don't care. You've been stuck to this chair for 8 hours now, unless we count two 5-minute bathroom breaks – which I don't, that's just your bladder screaming at you – and I am not leaving you alone here to starve, or dehydrate, or pass out from exhaustion. Okay?"

There's a very rare type of event that only occurs once or twice a year, and that's Pete Wentz digging his heels in on a subject, any subject, to the point of a meltdown.

Judging by his tone, this is one of those times.

"The sooner you finish, the sooner we get out of here."

Patrick sighs, which is more of a muffled puff of air behind Pete's hand, and nods.

It's inexplicable how, but Patrick _feels_ Pete perk up behind him, satisfaction radiating right into Patrick, and then Pete proceeds to wrap his eight – there are eight somehow, he's sure of it – limbs around Patrick even tighter.

"Pete, air," Patrick gasps out, and the grip loosens enough for Patrick to breathe comfortably.

"Thanks," he says wryly, and Pete just hums and nuzzles his head into Patrick's neck until he's apparently comfortable.

"Need a pillow back there?" Patrick asks with all the snark he has in him, focusing on _words_ and not the _sensations_ in his body.

Another hum is the only answer he gets, this one sounding vaguely like a 'nuh-uh', and then there's silence.

Silence, and Pete's body plastered to his.

It's stupidly comfortable, and warm, and cuddly, and it's _so unfair_.

Patrick swallows a frustrated huff of air and pointedly ignores the girl sitting across from them, who's shaking from silent laughter so hard, her dreads are trembling in tune.

It takes a Herculean willpower but Patrick manages to go back to writing his paper. He starts with one sentence, then another, then the third, and before he knows it, he's reached the end and finished proofreading and—

It's done.

Patrick tries to do victory arms, but one: ow, he's been sitting in the same position for too long, and two: there's a sleeping Pete Wentz on his back.

 _Ohh, boy_.

Like, first of all, Pete sleeping on him, that's a whole entire reason to freak out on its own. Pete! Plastered all over Patrick! The exclamation points just jump out into his brain themselves!

Second of all, Pete never sleeps. Or, okay, he does, but it's with enough difficulty that Patrick really hates waking him up. In fact, he usually goes out of his way to keep the environment quiet and Pete as comfortable as he can if he's around when Pete's sleeping.

On the other hand, staying like this, feeling Pete all around him, is... it's creepy.

It's creepy, right? No matter how much his entire being wants to stay here, soak up every last drop of Pete's warmth, inhale all his molecules.

He silently argues with himself in circles for an eternity, until the girl from the opposite table approaches.

"In case you were wondering, yes, he's into you," she whispers. "Like, he's got it real bad."

Patrick stares at her, speechless. He can feel a draft in his eyeballs, that's how wide his eyes have gotten.

"Just kiss him, you dumbass," she says and walks away, as if she didn't drop a nuclear bomb on Patrick's head.

It's... there's no way. She must be wrong. It was miracle enough when Pete saw something special enough in Patrick's awkward, pale, grumpy, unattractive self to be his friend, there's no way he's _into_ Patrick as well. That's like— like hitting a touchdown and then getting the extra bonus double win. Or something else sporty, Patrick wouldn't know how any of it works.

So, pfft. Patrick would be so lucky to get Pete.

Pete, who shines so bright, but doesn't see it. Pete, with his brilliant brain that turns against him, his ups and downs, his endless well of rage and an ocean of enthusiasm. Who thinks he's damaged goods when he's one of the kindest people Patrick's ever met.

If there is a limit to how much in love with Pete you can be, Patrick hasn't found it yet. And he's been falling for literal years now.

No, he has to wake Pete up or he'll jump out of his own skin.

"Hey, Pete," he whispers, stroking the arms that are still wrapped tight around Patrick's waist.

Pete mumbles something into Patrick's neck, breath warm and lips mushed against sensitive skin, and Patrick shivers.

"Hey, sleepyhead, time to go home."

Patrick can pinpoint the exact time Pete wakes up because he freezes, then relaxes, then tightens his grip on Patrick, all inside one second.

"You done?" he asks, voice rough from sleep.

"Yeah."

Neither of them is moving.

Patrick is terrified and giddy at the same time, enjoying the contact and feeling guilty about it, thinking about what the girl said and denying it in one breath; his head spins from the emotional roller-coaster.

Who was it that said people can't have _that_ many emotions or they'd explode? It sounds very plausible to Patrick right now.

" _Awesome_ ," Pete says, then straightens and… stretches? Stretches, yes, and Patrick takes the opportunity to slide sideways and away from the table and Pete and this entire mindfuck of a situation, just for a moment, just to get his head on straight.

Yes, he's aware of the irony of using the word ' _straight_ ', but his eyesight forwarded the sight of Pete's soft, sleepy expression to his brain and now it's useless; stuck in a loop of 'aww'-'hot'-'adorable'-'kiss now? now? how about _now_?'.

"Told you you'd kill it," Pete says, and suddenly he's close enough to smack a wet kiss to the top of Patrick's cheekbone, almost getting him in the eye.

Patrick squints and glares at Pete halfheartedly, lifts his hand with the intention of pushing Pete away in a playful but gentle manner (there is a precise technique to it that Patrick has perfected over the years), but Patrick's fingers have somehow gotten tangled in the neckline of Pete's sweatshirt and they... they won't let go.

It's really soft, and really yellow, and Patrick swallows, focusing on the sweatshirt entirely so he doesn't have to look at Pete.

Because he might as well do it, y'know? It's not like the girl is _completely_ wrong, all the things they do _aren't_ just friendshippy. Patrick sure as hell doesn't let anyone else touch him as much as he lets Pete do it. And Pete is tactile, a hugger, and sits on his friends' laps sometimes, but… Not like this.

 _Surely_ not like _this_.

Collecting every drop of courage in his body, Patrick leans in, closer, closer, pulling at Pete's sweatshirt until their foreheads touch.

It's nerve-wracking, this breathless, endless, _outrageous_ moment, but Pete isn't pulling away.

He presses trembling lips to Pete's, and that's it, Patrick's _done_. There is nothing left inside him, his courage only had so much juice, and it brought him here, and he can go no further.

A hand cups the back of Patrick's neck, Pete tilts his head just so, and suddenly, they're _kissing_ , _properly_ kissing, soft lips and warm breath and tingles racing through his _entire body_.

Patrick moans and it vibrates through both of them, their chests pressed together because Pete pulled him closer, somehow, at some point. Patrick has no idea when or how, probably with some of his eight arms while Patrick was distracted by his mouth, which is _the_ most intoxicating mouth in existence.

Pete's _mouth_.

Because Pete is _kissing him_.

_Holy crap._

The elation Patrick's feeling is interrupted by an explosion of sound in his ear, which after a moment translates into harsh clapping.

Pete startles, moves away from Patrick — Patrick barely avoids letting out a sad whine at that — and turns to the librarian standing right next to them, face as red as their brightly colored hair.

"I don't really care what you're doing as long as you're quiet and within bounds of propriety, but are those _food wrappers and empty bottles_ I see on your table?"

Patrick stares at them dumbly while Pete spins on his heel, sweeps all the trash into Patrick's bag in one impressive move, and chirps, "No, not at all, it's just wrappers from the new packs of pens and pencils, you know how it is, we students use those up by the dozens."

He's breathing a little heavy and his lips are kissed-red and wet, and Patrick can't really get his brain to accept any input that isn't _Pete_.

Pete is _so pretty_ like this.

And look, that's Pete's hair, all mussed from Patrick's fingers!

The librarian clearly doesn't care that Patrick is compromised to such a degree, his mind is all fluff and cotton balls. They lift an eyebrow at Pete and say, low and dangerous, "Do you know how many priceless books there are within _spilling_ distance of this table? How many computers? And even if there weren't, there are _rules_ , and food and drinks are _strictly forbidden in this building_ everywhere outside the cafeteria!"

 _That_ tone pierces through Patrick's infatuation with a vivid image of his mother grounding him and/or lecturing him, and his brain finally flashes a red alert. He turns towards the table to do _something_ , but Pete is already done, shoving a bag with his books and laptop inside it, then grabbing his hand and making a run for it.

He can feel the librarian's severe look of disapproval at the back of his neck all the way to the door, but it fades when they run out, and he's giggling too hard to dwell on it anyway.

Pete pulls him around the corner, drops his bag carelessly to the pavement, then pushes Patrick against the wall and kisses the breath out of him.

"Wha— why," Pete mumbles into his mouth, then doesn't stop kissing Patrick for long enough to let him reply.

"What, why what," Patrick breathes out, then licks Pete's canines, one after the other.

They're as delicious as they look.

Pete groans, then chases after Patrick's mouth, his tongue, dragging them both into a wet, open-mouthed kiss that makes Patrick's knees weak. It's cold outside, too cold for the sweatshirts they're both sporting, now that the sun has set, but it's warm wherever Pete is pressed against Patrick. It's warm and downright pleasant. Toasty _fine_.

Patrick sneaks his hands under Pete's yellow monstrosity of a sweatshirt and touches smooth skin. It's like an electric current, that contact, addictive even in microscopic amounts, and Patrick's breath hitches.

"Why now, are you sure, is this just— I couldn't—" Pete whispers in the fragile space between them, temple against Patrick's, the fragments of thoughts not enough to comprehend and much too revealing at the same time.

He's shaking a little, and Patrick feels a surge of protectiveness.

"I— How could I _not_ ," he says, helpless, daring to take that single figurative step towards Pete, to reassure him, to stop the doubt in his voice from spreading and turning heavy and toxic.

Pete pulls back a little and looks at Patrick, eye to eye because he's fucking _fearless_ even with his entire heart in his hands, on a platter, still bloody and beating.

"I'm not—" Pete says, and Patrick knows by the twist in his mouth that the next thing that comes out of his mouth is going to be self-deprecating and belittling because he's always like this, way too hard on himself, and no. Patrick isn't going to stand for that.

"Pete," he says, stealing a quick kiss to get Pete's full attention, "Pete, I know you. I've known you for years. You're my best friend. And even though you're a dumbass sometimes, I still— You're still the— The only one I want to do this with."

It's not the greatest, as far as declarations go, but Pete doesn't seem to mind.

"Really?" Pete asks quietly, equal parts disbelief and wonder.

Patrick smiles at the thought of being with Pete like this, being able to touch and kiss and maybe wake up next to him. Maybe cuddle with him in the evenings, or exchange stupid, sappy messages, or write songs set to the beat of his heart. Being able to introduce him as his boyfriend, and talk to him until dawn, and simply hang out with him, whenever he wants, no pretext needed.

It sounds absolutely _wonderful_.

"Really," Patrick says, and seals the promise with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](https://toorational.tumblr.com/) Come talk to me, I love talking to people. :)


End file.
